


Random Encounters

by cyrene



Series: How to Lose Friends and Alienate People [4]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Bending, Gen, Iroh loves some fucking tea okay?, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, gratuitious Disney reference, gratuitous cabbage guy reference, meet not-so-cute, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-05 05:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5363315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyrene/pseuds/cyrene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin.</p><p>Oh, fine then, be that way. Some back story, some actually moving this thing I jokingly call a "plot" along, all under the premise of people accidentally running into each other in places. </p><p>Wasn't much better, was it? Well, I can definitely tell you that in Ch1 a man gets shot, a young boy saves a young girl from gangsters, and that same young boy has a truly sad internal monologue/pity party, because that's pretty much what he does. Ch2 involves two separate but equally pathetic slipping accidents in the Phoenix Diner, Katara being her nerdy self, Zuko not knowing how to people, like, AT ALL, and if I don't get you with the promise of a Cabbage Guy reference, there's just no hope for this relationship and we should consider seeing other people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Jump Ahead

**Author's Note:**

> A thing you should know about me: I am LITERALLY INCAPABLE of restraining myself when it comes to Disney references. If I see the opportunity, I take it. It's a disease for which there is no cure. (Why am I not writing Once Upon a Time fic? You'd think that would be my heaven.)
> 
> P.S.: I have no beta, so if I've made a stupid mistake, please let me know so I can correct it and then die of shame.

 

 

Katara checks her watch: it’s after ten P.M. She is going to _die_. She should change her name to “Dead Girl” before she gets home, because that’s what she is. Gran-Gran is going to kill her, then Sokka and Dad are _both_ going to kill her _again_ when they find out, for a grand total of three deaths.

 

She hadn’t meant to be out this late. Really. She had told Gran-Gran she was going to the library, and had fully intended to be home before dark, as per the rules of her being allowed to go on her own even though she’s only eleven. It’s just that she wanted to go to the _university_ library -- Gran-Gran wasn’t given that piece of information, of course, or she never would have been okay with it -- which closes hours later than the public library. She isn’t allowed to check out books there, because she isn’t a student, so she has to just sit there and read as much as she can before she has to leave.

 

She should have left hours ago. Now she has to make her way to the bus station in the dark, and it’s a long, public ride back home.

 

When Katara exits the bus, it’s after eleven and she still has a long walk ahead of her. She shifts her backpack on her shoulders, gearing up for that, when she hears a shout to her immediate left. Startled, she turns to look, and that’s _so incredibly stupid_ , because there is a trio of men in the alley -- two standing and one kneeling -- and she’s turned just in time to see one of them shoot the kneeling man. She can just barely see the blood splatter behind him in the alley.

 

And then, because she’s apparently not capable of rational thought tonight, she lets out a shriek of surprise and horror. She claps a hand over her mouth, but that doesn’t stop the noise.

 

They turn. They see her.

 

Katara runs.

 

She runs like her life depends on it, which it probably does right now. She knows these probably aren’t the same men who shot and killed her mother in their home while she hid under her parents’ bed, but in her head they somehow are, and that fuels her terror and her feet. She runs until her lungs and her legs burn, and her pelvis hurts from where the heavy backpack keeps hitting her in the butt. She’s only vaguely paying attention to where she’s going, enough to keep to familiar places.

 

She stops abruptly when she runs into someone. The impact sends them both straight to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs, and Katara shrieks again, trying to push the foreign body away.

 

“ _Shh!_ I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he hisses, crawling back, away and holding his hands out to show her he is unarmed and means her no harm. “I didn’t see you; I wasn’t paying attention! Please don’t scream again!”

 

Katara can see him now, and it’s just a boy, not much older than she is. He has the most unusual eyes she’s ever seen. They’re honey-gold, and right now they look as terrified as she feels.

 

They’re just staring at each other for a minute, wary and out of breath, but a shout that’s too close for comfort breaks their daze.

 

“They’re after me!” she exclaims, her head jerking in the direction of the sound.

 

He spits out: “Shit!” Then, to her, with a startled expression: “They’re after _you?!_ ”

 

“You?” She barely breathes the word, but he hears her anyway and nods.

 

He looks from her to the direction the voices came from, then back to her. Then he holds out his hand. “Trust me?”

 

She knows she shouldn’t -- knows better than to trust _any_ stranger in this town -- but he’s just a boy, and his face is _so somber_ , his eyes are _so sincere._

 

“I’ll save you from the gangsters,” he assures her, his voice urgent as he makes an impatient gesture with his hand.

 

She nods, gives him her hand, and lets him help her up.

 

“ _Run_ ,” he urges, taking off down a side road.

 

He doesn’t let go of her hand.

 

 

***

 

 

He’s really fucked up this time. When he gets home, he’s going to die. His father is going to kill him, and no-one will _ever_ find his body, because that’s what happens when Ozai Sozin is done with your shit: you just evaporate.

 

He can practically hear his father’s voice in his head: _You were lucky to be born._ And he was -- his father had wanted his mother to get an abortion, but his mother stubbornly refused, and all they got for her trouble was a crappy marriage and him: Zuko.

 

Zuko, who had to stay in the NICU for the first two weeks of his life, who didn’t speak a word until he was nearly three, whose mother would rather kill herself than stick around, who has to stay up half the night studying (with the damned letters _swimming_ all over the page) to _still_ get worse grades than his little sister, and _still_ got held back a grade because the only A he gets is in Moronics. (Yeah, Azula’s _hilarious_. That joke _never_ gets old!)

 

Zuko, who has just fucked up the first real job his father trusted him with, a perfectly routine arson.

 

Now the guys who were sent to supervise him are after him, and somehow this girl he’s dragging along behind him figures into it -- he doesn’t know how, but he’s got his long fingers gripped around her wrist, and they’re running through town looking for a place to hide. They’re running so fast that her long hair is almost parallel to the ground.

 

There’s no place _he_ can hide, but maybe he can help _her_.

 

They’re in a really bad part of town right now, around the back of a building which has been abandoned so long it used to be a Sears-Roebuck, back when _that_ was a thing. He silently gestures for her to step up onto his hands so she can climb the rusty old ladder that leads to the roof. He doesn’t want to pull it down, because even if it _would_ extend, it would make way too much noise.

 

The Girl looks scared, her blue eyes all watery with tears, but she sets her mouth in a firm line and nods. He jumps up behind her and stays close on the way up. When they get to the top, he pushes her down by the shoulder into a crouching position.

 

He places one finger across his mouth. She nods, mimicking the gesture.

 

He looks around, but there don’t appear to be any homeless people staying here tonight. That’s good. No one will see them. They crawl on their hands and knees over to a good hiding spot between the door that leads down inside and some kind of big pipe sticking out of the roof. He leans back, closes his eyes and sighs.

 

He quickly opens his eyes again, because when they’re closed he can see the shadows in the window of that house -- a woman he doesn’t even know tucking some kid he doesn’t know either into bed -- and he feels sick to his stomach. He wonders if his father’s men chased after him immediately, or if they finished the job first. They probably finished the job, _and he is not going to cry right now._ He doesn’t even know those people.

 

_So, what now, then?_

 

There’s no point in him putting off going home; that will only make it worse. But now he’s got The Girl here, and he feels kind of responsible for her.

 

If he’s dead meat anyway, maybe he should do something nice first, in case there’s an afterlife or something.  He should do something to put in a good word for himself.

 

 

***

 

 

After a few minutes, she can’t stand it anymore. The initial burst of adrenaline is wearing off, and she’s shivering. Her fear is turning cold; it’s freezing her from inside.

 

“What do we do now?” she asks in a whisper.

 

He grimaces. “I’m trying to work that out.”

 

“Why are you helping me? Who are you?”

 

“ _Don’t_ tell me your name,” he says quickly. “Names aren’t safe to know. Don’t tell me your address either, but can you give me a major street? Something one or two miles away in a well-lit area?”

 

She thinks about it for a minute. “Is Southern Boulevard okay?”

 

“Can you walk home safely from there?”

 

She nods.

 

“Okay, then. We’ll give it another five to be safe, then head out.”

 

She nods again, not knowing what else to say. It’s not that she doesn’t have a million questions -- as her brother would say, if Katara’s run out of questions, it’s because first she ran out of air. (Yeah, Sokka’s _hilarious_ like that.) It’s just that she’s not sure what she can feasibly ask in a situation where it’s too dangerous to even exchange _names_.

 

She can’t help staring at him, though, and she’s never seen someone look so _miserable_. Admittedly, it _has_ been a rough night for the both of them, but that doesn’t quite cover the despondency that pervades him.

 

(These are the kinds of words she uses only in her mind -- _feasibly, despondency_ , _pervades_ \-- words that really aren’t _that_ difficult, but would have the kids at school mocking her mercilessly.)

 

Finally, he sits up and puts his finger over his lips again, then holds his hand out and gestures for her to wait where she is. She nods again, to show she understands. She watches him as far as she can see him, going around the edges of the roof, checking to see if there’s anyone down below. There must not be, because he’s back a minute later, gesturing for her to follow him.

 

They walk in silence. She’s weirdly afraid to say something, especially of being the _first_ to say something, or saying the _wrong_ thing. So they walk in silence.

 

When they get to Southern Boulevard, he stops. He gestures towards the brightly lit street, though he hangs back in the shadows. She stands there for a minute, just staring at him. It’s almost two in the morning now.

 

“We’re here,” he says finally, awkwardly.

 

She stumbles forward, wraps her arms tightly around him, and feels his body go rigid with shock.

 

“ _Thank you_ ,” she whispers. “Take care of yourself.”

 

Then she turns and walks away. She wants to look back, but she doesn’t. It’s not like one last glimpse will let her know that he’ll be okay.

 

She runs the rest of the way home.

 

 

***

 

 

They don’t _really_ kill her, of course.

 

When she gets home, Gran-Gran and Sokka are waiting up for her, and they do give her hell. When her dad gets home from his business trip, two days later, he gives her hell too. There’s a lot of crying all around, both times. She’s grounded for the rest of her natural life, of course.

 

When she tells her father what really happened -- she only told Gran-Gran and Sokka that the bus broke down so they wouldn’t worry -- he is _furious_ with her, but she can tell it’s the kind of anger that’s really hiding fear.

 

Two weeks later, they have a townhouse that’s a twenty minute bike ride from the university library that got her in all this trouble to begin with, but an hour away from the city where she was born, where her mother lived and died.

 

She never stops wondering who that boy was, why the Sozins were after him, or if he ever found some place safe to hide.

 

 


	2. Second Encounter

 

 

 

Katara is early. She is so ridiculously early that nobody is at the school yet, not even the janitorial staff. Of course no-one’s there -- it’s barely six in the morning.

 

She left a note on the kitchen counter, stating the time she left the house, exactly where she’s going, and the date, just to be sure. It’s not that her family doesn’t trust her, it’s just that they’ve never quite forgotten the late night library incident three years ago. (How could they, when it’s the whole reason they moved?) It’s prudent to be as careful as possible when leaving the house, to preserve her independence, if nothing else.

 

She can’t just hang around outside the school. If someone notices, that will instantly label her as the weird kid on the first day, before the first bell even rings, and she can’t have that. She’s trying for a fresh start, to leave the misery that was middle school behind, and her brother’s popularity will only take her so far. She has to do something, though. She already biked all the way down there.

 

Katara climbs back on her bicycle and starts pedaling. She’s slowly heading in the general direction of the university, which is only about ten minutes away, but it’s not a firm destination. If anything, she wants to get some more coffee, and universities tend to be surrounded by two things: bars and coffee joints. She can already feel her second cup starting to wear off. She didn’t get much sleep last night; she’s too nervous, too excited.

 

About halfway between her new high school and the university, unassumingly squatting on the corner of a little side street that leads to the mall, she notices a diner. It has a green roof with “The Phoenix Diner” painted in swirling red letters on the shingles, and a standing sign out front by the road, just in case. A pink neon sign in one window declares that the diner is “ _Open!_ ”

 

Katara leaves her bike chained outside and shields her eyes against the rising sun as she enters. The diner is shabby, but nice. The rows of empty booths are the same green as the roof, the flooring is a weird brown tile, and the whole place has that “old, but clean” look to it. The only other person in there is behind the counter, talking on the phone. Well, more shouting at it, really.

 

“No, we _don’t_ _want_ any cabbages,” he growls in frustration, running a hand through his already messy black hair. “We need what’s on the list my uncle gave you. No, you don’t under-- I really don’t _care_ how good they are.”

 

He pauses, probably listening to whomever is on the other end make their pro-cabbage counterargument.

 

She sits at the speckled brown counter to wait, realizing too late that the chair is the sort that swivels. She turns hard to the right, slips off the plastic cushion, and falls to the tiled floor with an “ _OOF_!” The guy behind the counter half-turns to look at her, black hair hanging in his face, and Katara loses her breath for the second time in less than a minute.

 

_He has golden eyes._

 

He’s still complaining to the cabbage guy, but now he’s half looking at her with confusion.

 

“Dude, _nobody likes cabbages_. Except the Irish, I guess they do, but _nobody here is Irish_. Call back in March, we’ll talk cabbages and corned beef then.”

 

He bangs the phone -- the old sort, connected to a beige wall unit with a spiraling cord -- down on its receiver with a _clang_ that looks like it must feel satisfying. He turns sharply on his heel to face Katara.

 

It is. It’s _him_. The boy who saved her life! He’s three years older, obviously, and has an enormous, horrible burn scar on his face, but she would know him anywhere. He recognizes her too; she knows it -- his eyes widen for a second, maybe fear or maybe just surprise, she can’t tell.

 

“Can I help you?” he asks irritably, his face schooled to a furious blank now.

 

“It’s you!” Katara whispers, using the swivel chairs to haul herself up from the floor. As far as opening lines go, it’s not a very good one, but it’s all she can think to say. “I always wondered what happened to you.” She reaches a hand out towards his face, then snatches it back when she realizes what she’s doing. “Did -- did _they_ do this to you? Did they -- did they catch you because of me?”

 

“I’m sorry,” he says carefully, with a small shrug, “but you must have me confused with someone else.”

 

“No...” Katara says slowly, “no, I don’t. Three years ago you saved me from some gangsters who were after me. You dropped me off at Southern Boulevard.” She holds out her hand, like he did for her three years ago. “Trust me? Remember?”

 

His jaw clenches. “I’m sorry, Miss,” he says through gritted teeth, “but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

She’s watching his shifty eyes, though, and she _knows_ he’s lying. She just doesn’t know _why_. If they were out in public, she’d understand, but it’s just the two of them in this diner.

 

“I’ve lived here for years,” he’s saying, “working at my uncle’s diner. My name’s--”

 

“No, don’t tell me,” she snaps, her voice wild, and high, and out of her control. “‘Names are dangerous to know.’ If you tell me, you might have to _kill_ me.”

 

She’s being way too dramatic about this. She takes a deep breath and holds it in for a few seconds to calm herself down, because she’ll never forgive herself if she starts crying or something ridiculous like that.

 

He presses his lips together -- she peeks at his name tag anyway: “Lee” -- then he says, “I’m sorry, Miss. Let me get you some coffee. On the house.”

 

She levels her best condescending look at him. “I don’t need the charity of a liar,” she informs him, but he’s already popping a lid on a takeaway cup. She snatches it off the counter and storms out the door.

 

Then she thinks the better of it, and storms right back in. The door slams behind her, and Lee jumps at the noise. He seems surprised to see her back.

 

“Don’t like the coffee?”

 

“ _Why_?” she demands, ignoring his stupid question. “I _know_ you remember me. I know it’s you. Why are you pretending like this isn’t... a... a _thing_?!”

 

Oh, “ _a thing_!” Great vocabulary, Katara. She can definitely tell why people think she’s a genius. She could smack herself, but she already bruised her rear enough on the floor -- no need to show up to the first day of school with a handprint on her forehead too.

 

Meanwhile, Lee looks furious. “Listen, little girl,” he barks, one hand gripping the counter and the other pointing a finger at her, “I’m sorry you’re upset, and I tried to be nice about it, but I’m _not_ this person you think I am.”

 

He pauses, looking at her critically. She stands a little straighter, narrows her eyes a little more.

 

“Shouldn’t you be in school or something? Fuck off _there_ , and let me do my damn job.”

 

Katara’s mouth is hanging open. “Screw you, you... you _jerk_ ,” she whispers, turning on her heel and storming out... again.

 

She is _absolutely not_ tearing up.

 

Seriously, screw that guy. She’s never going back to the Phoenix Diner again.

 

 

***

 

 

The second time Katara finds herself in the Phoenix Diner, it’s Sokka’s fault.

 

After stealing some of her coffee on that first day of school, Sokka begins to frequent the diner. Katara does _not_ go with him, but this time is different. Sokka’s just finished his probation after The Green Chicken Incident. He wants to celebrate, and Katara can’t really say no to that. She knows it’s not just Sokka’s newly restored freedom they’re celebrating, but the fact that he’s been doing so much better lately. He’s even made a new friend, from the soup kitchen where he was serving his probation hours. His seems so much brighter lately, with a bounce in his step and a lightness to his face that hasn’t been there since Yue. Katara wonders if that means her brother has gotten through the worst of his grieving now. She really hopes so, and not just because they can’t handle another Incident.

 

Either way, she can’t really say no to Sokka, not even to the venue. Not when he looks so happy now.

 

They meet up after school. Katara is a little late because her history teacher wants to talk to her about applying for college with the early admissions program. Her mind is reeling with the possibility that she might never have to step foot in a grade school again. She might never have to put up with being bored in class, or with _high schoolers_ again.

 

Katara peeks through the diner window as she’s chaining up her bike, and notices that the person behind the counter is an old man, not that jerk Lee. She lets all her breath out in a _whoosh_ \-- because she biked over, not because she’s _relieved_ or anything -- as she practically bounces through the door, the little bell jingling above her head.

 

She waves at her brother. He’s sitting in the back booth with his friend, who’s a bit younger and with much less hair than Katara would have thought. They’re laughing about something, though, and Sokka’s eyes are bright, so whoever this is, Katara is instantly endeared to him.

 

The old man who owns the diner -- his name is Mushi, but he says he’s much more comfortable with just “Uncle” -- takes their orders, and brings them each a free tea they didn’t ask for. They each have a different tea, and “Uncle” stays for a minute, explaining what he chose for each of them and why. He obviously put a lot of thought into this. It’s weird, sure, but kind of sweet.

 

“This is _wonderful_ ,” Katara breathes, smiling a little into her cup. She can’t decide which she likes better: the tea, or the proprietor’s enthusiasm. “Thank you! I never would have thought to try it.”

 

“Uncle” beams at her. “No, thank _you_ , Miss Katara! It’s always nice to meet someone who can appreciate tea. My nephew, for all his good qualities, wouldn’t know a fine tea from sewer water. I let him stick to the coffee. You can’t really ruin coffee; it does that to itself.”

 

Katara snorts as Uncle makes his way back to the kitchen, wondering what exactly these good qualities are. As far as she knows, it’s saving small girls from bad men in alleyways, and that’s pretty much it. Okay, so that’s a big one, but does it really give him the right to be such a... a _jerk_ the rest of the time?

 

Sokka and his friend, Aang, are trying to convince Katara to come to the park with them, where Aang plans on teaching Sokka how to skateboard, amongst other things. This seems like a terrible idea, a disaster waiting to happen, but they’ve got her laughing again with their sheer enthusiasm.

 

Mushi -- Uncle, that is -- is behind the counter, standing at a doorway that leads directly onto a staircase. She supposes he must be talking to someone. Just as it occurs to her that the stairs probably lead to an upstairs apartment, Lee the jerk comes bounding down them, a green apron tied around his waist and a book in front of his stupid face.

 

Katara scowls, only half listening as Aang explains the basics of Climbing All The Things to her brother.

 

Lee moves behind the counter area like it’s second nature to him. He never puts the book down or stops reading as he clocks in, sets fresh coffee going, and refills various containers and dispensers. Occasionally he turns a page, moving a large, bright blue bookmark along with it. He gathers some plates onto a tray, holding it one-handed in front of his body and delivering it to the correct table, chatting with its occupants a bit, all without putting down his book.

 

Unbeknownst to her, Katara’s scowl slowly fades, because this is actually pretty fascinating to watch.

 

He delivers their food that way too, and is so wrapped up in his book that he doesn’t even notice it’s her in the booth. She takes a peek at what he’s reading: it’s “Hamlet” to her surprise. He responds to her thanks with an absent nod, then points the empty tray at Aang and says, “Feet off the furniture, kid,” before turning his page, carefully placing the transparent blue bookmark over the new one, and walking straight back to the counter.

 

Over the next year and some change, she observes him at this routine with Beowulf; A Short History of Byzantium; My Life in France; The Autobiography of Malcolm X; To Say Nothing of the Dog; volumes of poetry by Dorothy Parker, Catullus, and Rilke; Pavilion of Women; A Brief History of Time; Cosmos; and Empire of the Ants. When Uncle is there, Lee sometimes stops long enough to answer his questions about whatever book he’s currently on. Katara finds herself begrudgingly impressed by their conversations, and sometimes catches herself wishing she could join in.

 

She keeps waiting for him to trip and fall on his face while reading, to mess something up, but it only happens one time: that first time, when he’s reading “Hamlet”.

 

Sokka and Aang are ready to head off on their skateboarding adventure. Impatient to get going, Sokka hands Katara some cash and asks her to take care of the bill for them. Katara cringes, because of course Uncle is nowhere to be seen as she approaches the counter.

 

Katara clears her throat, but Lee doesn’t notice. He continues filling eight large cups with ice and soda, placing them carefully on his plastic tray without ever diverting his attention from Shakespeare. She clears her throat again, and again gets no response as he picks up the tray to deliver it to its table.

 

“Excuse me,” Katara snaps irritably, “do you think I can pay now, or should I just sleep here at the counter tonight?”

 

That gets his attention. She startles him pretty badly, actually. The tray of drinks tips out of his hand, hitting the floor with a loud crash. He promptly slips on the ice from the drinks, falling to meet his tray with an equally loud curse. Katara covers her mouth, caught between the desire to apologize profusely and the desire to giggle. What comes out of her mouth instead is a weird choking sound.

 

“Shit!” he exclaims, popping upright in one fluid ( _ha ha_!) motion. “Shit, shit, _shit_!”

 

He steadies himself on the counter with one hand, his dripping book still in the other, and kicks the ice to one side. He tosses the book onto the counter, where it lands on a rag. With another rag, he begins wiping down that stupid plastic bookmark, of all things, still muttering curses under his breath.

 

“Um, okay...” Katara says slowly, placing her cash down on the counter, “I’ll just leave this here. You keep the change.” She pauses, then her kinder nature wins out. “Do you need some help?”

 

His eyes snap over to her, his scrubbing hands still. “Just go,” he barks.

 

Katara’s face flushes with anger. “Screw you, you jerk,” she tells him for the second time, noting a look of surprise on his face as she leaves. She makes sure to slam the door behind her.

 

She bikes down to the park to make sure Sokka and Aang haven’t killed themselves yet, arriving windblown and out of breath, but feeling much better. They haven’t gotten themselves killed yet, though it’s not for lack of trying. The boys spend the rest of the afternoon making her laugh and trying to keep her upright on the skateboard while it’s in motion.

 

Katara and Aang have a cartwheel competition, which he wins with an impressive ten in a row. Katara falls over on her seventh, laughing in the grass with the sun in her eyes.

 

Somewhere along the way, Aang loses the little gold key he wears on a leather cord around his neck. He’s in a panic, but Katara points out that his cartwheel chain was remarkably straight, so it’s probably just a few feet back in the grass. She’s right, and all is right again.

 

They meander over to the war memorial. Well, it’s supposed to be a war memorial, she guesses, but it’s just a tank sitting in the grass in the middle of the park. It doesn’t even have a plaque. Sokka challenges Aang to see who can climb to the top the fastest. Katara refuses to participate, but doesn’t exactly speak out against it, because she’s trying to figure out if it’s disrespectful to scale a war memorial with no dedication on it.

 

Aang wins, of course, because he has more practice at this stuff than Sokka. Sokka hangs off the long gun part like a monkey, shooting sarcastic comments at Aang, who’s first crouching next to Sokka’s hands, then hanging upside down by his legs.

 

Katara is happy here, in this moment. It’s a strange feeling, but a good one.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things in this chapter that are real:  
> 1\. The Phoenix Diner, though it's not called that in real life.  
> 2\. The tank in the park. WHY? Just... why, y'all?  
> 3\. All the books I mentioned. I picked out "Hamlet" and "Beowulf" specifically, but every other book mentioned was literally just me pointing at a random shelf of my bookcases -- thus the Catullus and Empire of the Ants. It was pretty funny, though.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not exactly sure how many chapters of this there are, because I keep changing my mind and adding and deleting things from my (pathetically detailed) outline. Also, I am probably the slowest writer ever. It takes me, like, a month to be satisfied with every freaking chapter. I really envy those of you who can pump out a 2k+ chapter per week, but I will neither confirm nor deny the existence of a shrine where I pray that you speed my brain and fingers. That would be telling.


End file.
